Compose Yourself
by Opulent Skyscrapers
Summary: Christine is just another prostitute, with nothing remarkable about her. Erik is just another angry musician, and as with all musicians, most everything is remarkable about him. Modern-day
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So, here's my first story! There's some cursing in it, so be forewarned... please enjoy, and review!

Disclaimer: NOTHING. Nothing, I tell you!!

--

The first time he walked in, I didn't take much notice of him.

Being a prostitute teaches you not to stare. We get many strange clients at the _Opéra Populaire_ (_Popular Opera,_ according to Madame Giry, who looked at us all meaningfully), most of which need only a distraction, which usually means they are short-tempered, and all of us are easy targets. So it was safer not to stare, even if he wasn't _your_ client.

The second time he came, I took equally as little notice. Twice means nothing. Twice can be a coincidence. I had been talking with Meg (one of my few friends at the _Opéra Populaire_), and barely noticed him.

The third time, however, I most definitely noticed him. His hair was messy and disheveled, and his clothes were rumpled and stained. What caught my eye, though, was the white porcelain half-mask firmly placed on one half of his face. My eyes rested just a second too long at this, and Meg elbowed me nervously.

"Oh," I breathed, suddenly aware of what I had been doing. "S-sorry. Thank you, Meg."

The man, who had been heatedly discussing something with Madame Giry, stopped suddenly.

"Her," he said shortly. "I want her."

Without missing a beat, Madame Giry quickly surveyed me and then turned to him again.

"Are you sure, _monsieur?_" she said, her thick French accent heavily painting her words. "Based on how you are acting at the moment, I would recommend another girl, first. You said you needed 'a very strong distraction,' is that not correct, _monsieur?_ Perhaps—"

The man cut her off, taking out his wallet. "I changed my mind. How much do you want? It's not as though I don't have money. If you want more than the usual fee, I will give you more." He laid the money out on the table and counted it pointedly. Madame Giry's face barely betrayed the surprise we all knew was there.

"Of course, _monsieur_," she said smoothly. She took the money and patted it, her gaudily metallic rings glimmering on her fingers. "Just one moment, then, _monsieur_—"

"Wait," he interrupted. "I need her for—" he stopped a moment, considering. "For a week," he finished, taking out his wallet again. Both Madame Giry and I gasped.

"No, no, no, _monsieur. _That is out of the question, regardless of how much you pay. Absolutely not," Madame Giry said firmly, having recovered much more quickly than myself. I was still gawking, afraid. Meg clung nervously to my arm. A week? A _week,_ with this man?

The man looked up from his wallet, an expression of irritation plastered on his face. "No, no, no—I won't be _sleeping_ with her very much at all, I don't think. And what I mean by that, is," he stopped for a breath. "Is that I am a musician. A composer. And she has a— a clearer voice than I have ever heard. She will be helping me compose. If I finish before the end of the week, I will return her—you can keep _all_ the money," he finished, counting out more bills.

Madame Giry eyed him. "All right, _monsieur. _I will allow her to stay with you for three days, then she will return here for several hours, then she—_if _ I hear she is doing well—may return with you for the remainder of the week." She took the money from his hand, eying it.

"We'll discuss that," the man grumbled. He checked his watch impatiently. "Come on, then, girl!" He grabbed my elbow and started to drag me along. I looked back at Madame Giry and Meg, frightened, before Madame Giry grabbed my shoulder and the man stopped f or a moment, glaring at her.

"Be careful, Christine," she breathed in my ear, before giving my shoulder a squeeze and my face a pat.

I stood there for a moment, dazed, until the man yanked my arm roughly, pulling me out of my stupor and out of the _Opéra Populaire._

His car, a shiny, black, new-but-cheap-looking vehicle, was parked haphazardly between a regular parking spot and a handicap spot, with black tire treads trailing from behind. He yanked open the back door roughly, and numerous papers tumbled out. The wind chose that moment to pick up, and several of them blew away. I darted after them, hoping to be useful.

"Damn it," he growled, "_damn it._" I handed him the papers I had gathered and he snatched them from me, tossing them, along with the ones he had gathered, atop some boxes in the backseat. He jerked his head towards the seat, a gesture for me to get in.

I climbed awkwardly in the small space. I tried to buckle my seatbelt, but couldn't find the buckle, as it was buried under mounds of paper and boxes. _Music notes,_ I realized as I inspected the messy scrawl covering each sheet.

The car started abruptly, and my head banged against the window with the sudden rough turns.

"Can you read music?" he snapped, not bothered by his own horrid driving, which attracted numerous honks and curses from other drivers.

"Uh..." I was unsure of how to reply, still dazed from this nausea-inducing driving.

He glared at me through the rear-view mirror. "Can't you think at all, girl? Oh, no—oh, _no,_ don't tell me you're one of those—those _airheads!_"

My eyes grew wide and I shook my head dumbly.

The car jerked to a sudden stop in the middle of the intersection. Fortunately, because of the timing of the red lights, we weren't hit, though it was close.

While the noise of the honks and shouts of anger began to abound, he turned around to me and his one truly visible eye fixed on me fiercely. His face was serious and frighteningly intense.

"If you," he growled, "If you do _anything_ to—to mess up my music—I, _personally,_ will skin you _alive._ Those last two _bimbos_ I got were even less than worthless. If you are like them, for your sake you had better hope you are one hell of an actress, because I will not tolerate another idiot like them. Is that _clear_?" His voice dripped menace in buckets.

I tried to disguise my fear. "Y-yes, sir."

He smirked. "_Sir._" I blushed but continued to stare at him with wide eyes. He frowned. "At least _try_ to hide your more _idiotic_ tendencies. Like I said, you'd better be one hell of an actress." He began to drive again, steering with one hand and flipping off the other drivers with the other. Soon we were speeding along, faster than before, with the man angrily weaving in and out of traffic. I wondered what would be in store for me.

As we wove in and out of traffic, I got more and more nervous. It was impossible not to see that this man was different from any other client I had ever had before, in more than one way. Madame Giry seemed reluctant to allow me to go with him, and that worried me greatly.

"Girl," he said angrily. "You never answered my question: can you, or can you not, read music?" He gave me a death glare from his mirror. I gulped.

"Ah—no, sir," I stammered. "Well, I—"

The car swerved onto a quiet, residential street suddenly. Heavy boxes slammed into me and piles of paper cascaded onto my head, which was shoved up against the door. I gasped for breath, winded, and tried to push myself away from the glass.

Before I could do anything, I heard a clattering and all the weight was pushed away from me. My face was still pressed against the glass, and I started to move away, but a strong hand slammed into my neck and grasped it tightly.

The man twisted my face towards his. "Would you care to reconsider that answer?" His voice was low and caked with fury. "If you will only say the same thing, then I will drive you to the nearest meat factory – I have _friends_ there who have _use_ for a girl like you—and then tell that awful Giry woman you died in a horrible accident—which will be almost entirely true. The only difference is that it will not be an accident." He paused. "Don't lie to me. You'll regret it."

I was struggling for breath now, his fingers constricting tighter and tighter around my throat. "S—" I tried speaking, but couldn't force the words out. My eyes widened as I became more desperate for air. What kind of psycho _was _this man? Black dots danced around the edges of my vision.

Dimly, I heard the sound of a motorcycle gunning. It grew louder and louder until it seemed to be very near the car. The man didn't take his eye off me.

Abruptly, the sound stopped. Someone banged frantically on the window next to his seat. His grip loosened ever so slightly.

"What, daroga?" he shouted furiously. The noise would have bothered me, had I been able to breathe.

"Let go of the girl, Erik!" a man's voice called. The glass muffled it, yet I could hear an accent I couldn't quite place. There was a scowl, and the fingers around my neck released, letting me drop onto the seat and pant for breath. The man got out of the car and slammed the door o hard the vehicle shook. He grabbed the other and stomped a good twenty feet away.

I sunk down into my seat, exhausted, but could hear the man with the mask shouting furiously. I could make out a few words and phrases, like "idiot prostitute," "damn these deadlines," and "get the hell out of my business." His voice abruptly stopped, then, and I assumed that the other was speaking. After a few moments of this silence, he came back and got into the car again, still angry but visibly calmer. He glowered at me but said nothing. I lowered my eyes and fingered my neck tenderly, feeling the many bruises.

The other man came and knocked at my window gently, trying to get my attention. I looked up gingerly, and he grimaced, motioning to the bruises on my neck. "I am truly sorry for those, miss," he said through the door, adjusting his dull maroon suit. I nodded jerkily.

He placed one naturally tanned hand on the driver's seat window. "May I speak with her outside, please, Erik?" he asked. The man-- Erik? -- nodded sullenly, and he pressed a button, unlocking my door. The other man opened it for me courteously, and we stepped about then feet away from the car, passing a motorcycle as we went. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked at me with an unreadable expression.

"I believe Erik has the intention to use you to help him compose. He is a musician, a composer, and has several deadlines, so to speak, coming up. Now," he said, "can you read music?" I stiffened, remembering the last time I had been asked this question. The tan-skinned man held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "I will not harm you if you cannot. Please, miss, answer me."

I nodded, recalling the days from my youth when I was hailed for my musical abilities. It had been more than a few years since then, but I would have to hope that I could remember my teachings quickly.

He nodded approvingly. "How fortunate." Then he frowned, disappointment bleeding into his voice. "He should not have treated you so roughly."

Erik honked the horn, a long and impatient wail. I grimaced from the noise, and the man helped me back into the car. He nodded once as a way of goodbye before Erik sped off, leaving him and his motorcycle behind without a word.

After a few moments of silent driving (we were now speeding down a deserted street, thank goodness), Erik inhaled sharply.

"Can you," he began sourly. "Read music?"  
I tried to sound confident and unafraid. "Yes, sir."

He sighed with relief. "Good. Very, very, _very_ good."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Wow, this took forever to write. I was procrastinating... heh, sorry. Gotta work on that. Anyways, I was in a rush when I submitted this last night, so I took out a few of the typos this morning and here I am, reposting it. Please, review, everyone! Let me know how you like it, how you like the pacing, the dialogue, the plot, all that awesome stuff. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own a copy of the movie, of the book, of the soundtrack (in two languages! English and Italian!), and my own fantasies. Everything else belongs to various geniuses throughout history, whose names are not mine.

**Edit- 9/30/08:** Kudos to my lovely reviewer Jareth Love for pointing out my singing instruction missteps. I edited the horrific ones out, I do believe, and hopefully she shall be able to continue reading without her singer's instinct crying out in agony!

--

Erik pulled his car into an underground garage. The car barely missed several vehicles exiting the garage, as well as the security guards lazily smoking and eating doughnuts. He pulled into a spot nearest the elevator, and motioned for me to get out.

We walked (when I say walked, I mean, he ran and I scampered to keep up with him in my high heels) to the elevator and he jammed the button impatiently, rocking on his heels and humming angry tunes to himself as we waited, The elevator doors slid open with an upbeat chime after a few moments, and Erik roughly shoved an elderly lady out of the small space. The doors slammed shut as soon as he pressed the button for floor number five, and we started moving with a jerk. I winced at the sudden motion, and noticed the carpet had numerous stains and was emitting a faint odor.

Erik adjusted his mask (I, again, resisted the urge to stare) and then turned to me, his face solemn, but with a hint of danger. He stared, unblinking, at me; then the corners of his mouth twitched down, and he broke away.

"That meddling daroga," he mumbled, "wants me to apologize for how I treated you—for those, those—" He gestured abstractly with is hands towards my neck. I stared at the ratty carpet; I was sure that one was a coffee stain...

"But I'm _not_ going to apologize," he continued, his voice sounding more confident than before. "Because, in my eyes, you deserved it." Yes, definitely coffee... and that one, to its left, cat urine?

He peered over at me, any calm in his face gone and replaced with malice. "You're doing it again." No—no, not cat urine, the stain was much too pink. Perhaps—perhaps—oh, dear, I was getting morbid; it looked very much like blood... The elevator dinged happily, and I glanced up with a start, only to see that it was merely alerting us that we had passed floor two. A slow elevator...

Erik inhaled deeply, and I saw his face turn red with frustration, and his shoulders shake with unexpressed anger.

"Don't act so idiotic around me," he growled. "Don't be such a damn bimbo, such a scared little damn _mouse._ I can't stand it—not now, at least. I need you to help me meet some damned deadlines, and that means knowing when to stay quiet and when to speak the hell up! Got it?"

I started to nod again, but stopped myself. "Yes, sir," I answered, in what I hoped was an assured tone of voice.

"Not 'sir'," he rebuked. "Erik."

"Yes, Erik." _That_ stain was definitely blood, then; that one in the other corner was cat urine. To its right, beer.

"Good," he mumbled, his shoulders relaxing. "Good."

The elevator screeched to a stop, and another one of those jubilant pings sounded. I glanced up at the numbers, noting we were only at floor number four. Hadn't he pressed button number five? I was about to ask if this was his floor, but then realized that would be one of those idiotic things he warned me against. It must be his floor, after all—

The doors jerked open, and a tall woman stepped in. She pressed the button for floor one after sucking on her cigarette for a moment. I stared up at her curiously, noting her excessive makeup and dark roots in her reddish curls.

"Damn it, Carlotta! Why the hell can't you use the other elevator? I need to just go one—just one! One floor up from here!" Erik shouted at this woman. She shifted her weight and put her hand on her hip, puffing smoke into his face.

"I cannot use the other elevator because somebody not fix it yet!" she trilled loudly. "Which I suspect you already know, seeing as you are the one who break it in the first place!" The elevator hummed as it started going down again. The woman, Carlotta, flipped her heavy mass of curls over her back and took another drag on her cigarette, flicking ash off her fingertips and turning to me, pointedly eying me.

"Who is this girl now, hmmm? I see you with two other just this last week!"

"Shut the hell up, _Carlotta._" I could see him trying to restrain his rage at this woman, and (for both our sakes) hoped she wouldn't push him.

That didn't seem the case.

"Don't you get started on me, you bastard!" she screeched, her words flying off her tongue coated with a native Italian accent, each one with the accent more prominent. "For the past three years, I 'ave been listening to that _orribile suono_ you have the gall to call music! And now, now, you have the guts to tell me, _me,_ Carlotta Giu—"

There was suddenly a scream, and then Carlotta crashed into me, slamming us both against the wall of the elevator, which groaned and shrieked and sputtered to a stop, the lights flickering. She lay sprawled on me, heaving and clutching her face. I tried to move, to shift her away, but she moaned and screeched every time I did, so we stayed shoved against the metal wall.

"_Si bastardo,_" she moaned. _"Oh, la mia faccia... passare per l'inferno, bastardo!" _I had not idea what she was saying, but I guessed it wasn't exactly nice. I managed to get a glimpse of Erik through the curls spread on my face, and saw his contorted with fury.

"Please," I whispered in her ear. "Not now; oh, please, not now. He's already upset enough, please—please! Don't make him more angry!" She stopped after that, and we all just stayed where we were under the flickering florescent lights.

After a second, a scratchy voice came over the speaker. "Erik? Did you—" a wave of static cut off the voice, and then it came back on. "—gain?" There was a rustling sound, and the static increased. I winced, and began to help Carlotta up. "D-- rik, we spent g-- ey on that --tor repair-- st time! And we ha-- one working elevator at a t-- se we get sued!"

Erik pressed the 'call' button. "Listen, Firmin, right now I don't care. The de Chagnys are hounding me again, and I just got some prostitute to help me compose. I don't care about the damn elevator; I'll deal with that later. But right now, I just need you to get us out."

There was a long, static-filled pause. Carlotta and I were standing, and I got a look at the nasty bruise forming on her cheek. I looked at her, trying to say, "I'm sorry" with my eyes. She gave a quick nod, understanding. I saw her look at the bruises on my neck, though, and she leaned in close at the static started up again.

"Apartment 406," she said softly. "If you were to need it. _Essere molto attenti, poco agnello."_

"--king on it, r-- ow," the man over the intercom said. "But Richard and I ar-- pairmen, E—" The elevator suddenly went dark as the lights flickered out and the elevator started going up. "Ah! Th-- go!"

Carlotta, Erik, and I all rode in silence until the elevator weakly reached Erik's floor. The doors opened and we both stepped out. He ran down the hall and shoved a key in a hole in one of the doors. I hesitated, staring back at Carlotta before the doors closed and she was gone.

--

Erik's apartment was, without a doubt, that of a musician. Hundreds upon hundreds of sheets of music were scattered over, under, and around various instruments: a violin, a cello, a piano, a trombone, a guitar, a drum set, a small organ. We walked in; he threw his coat off next to the door and immediately went over to the piano. Erik shuffled through the papers littering the piano bench, ordering and re-ordering them until they were to his liking.

"Come over here," he said, "and don't touch _anything._" I slipped off my heels and walked over to him, smoothing my hair and chanting mentally. _Don't be an idiot, Christine, don't be an idiot, please, oh, please, don't be an idiot... Father, give me strength. _

Erik's fingers danced up and down the piano, breaking my reverie. "Come on, girl—what's your name?"

"Christine," I said, trying not to sound too scared.

"Christine, then, come on. Sing scales with me." He sang as he played this time, hitting each note perfectly. I joined in, as best I could. My voice squeaked and cracked. I blushed; he frowned.

"Sing with your diaphragm more," he said, putting his hand near my ribs and pushing on my back, adjusting my posture. "Fix your posture—that's it, good—now, open your mouth, just a bit wider—more of an 'o' shape—ah, good—now, let's try again. Loudly, Christine— loudly but gracefully."

He played the same scale once more, nodding with approval, as my voice was able to hit more notes, more smoothly. "Good," he murmured, and I was shocked at the sudden difference in his mood. We moved on, to higher and lower notes, and he nodded appreciatively as I more and more of the higher notes on the piano with clarity. I surprised myself-- I hadn't known I would be able to get back into the step of singing so quickly.

"Now," he started. "I have the rudiments of a song—and it needs vocal accompaniment, it was a client request. Here, I'll play it out for you—what I have so far—on the piano, and then I'll play it again, and on the second time, I want you to hit the same notes I play, with your voice, alright?"

"Th—I'll do my best," I said, suddenly insecure.

Erik took no notice of my sudden self-consciousness and started playing a beautiful melody. His fingers nimbly, artfully, wove each note together, until the sound swelled and surrounded me. The music was beautiful—simply beautiful. I couldn't describe it; it was beyond words. After a bit, he stopped, and turned to me.

"That was—" I stopped, stammering. "Beautiful. Just beautiful." He smiled at me (was this even the same man? I didn't care anymore; all I cared about was the music, that music, _his_ music).

"Now," he said, "Try it again with me. Come on, Christine." He started playing again, and looked at me. "And." he nodded. "Go."

I took a quick breath and started hitting the notes with him. I winced when a transition was jerky, but he didn't seem to care. He didn't stop, just kept playing, even when I had to suck in a deep, intense breath, he kept playing; and after a moment, I jumped back in. At the end, he let his fingers rest on the keys while he thought, chewing on his bottom lip.

"How did... did I do?" I asked, slightly breathless.

Erik didn't answer for along moment, just stayed silent. "You did very well," he said at the end of that long, eternal moment. "I think... this will work out quite nicely. Now, in another key..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** NOTHING!! Nothing, darn it!!

--

The rest of the day passed by in a flurry of sound so angelic I didn't think a being other than God Himself could be its creator.

--

My father had been the most brilliant musician I ever knew.

I was ashamed to say I started thinking of that in the past tense.

"_Had_ been."

--

I began to cross myself frequently in Erik's presence. He was not God; that I was assured of. Which only left Satan able to entrance me with such harmonies. I was prepared to do anything if only that his music would continues. Murder- torture- kidnap- anything. All Erik (Satan? God?) would have had to do was snap his fingers and I would have become his servant: a mindless, eager drone.

I crossed myself once more. Surely God—merciful God—would not abandon me in this trial.

Once again did my fingers find their way to each point: forehead, heart, side, side, repeat...

--

I began to feverishly peer about. Where were his wings? An angel would have wings. _Where were they?_

--

Erik put his hand on the small of my back.

"Lift your head more, girl," he muttered. "Good—good. So, we've got the bit—the basic tune—constructed, wouldn't you say?"

I nodded dumbly. That—that elaborate, heavenly melody was _basic?_

Erik stood up from the piano bench; I followed him from my collapsible lawn chair we had borrowed (begged for; stolen; extorted) from Carlotta. He dragged a couch aside to reveal a harp, shining and pristine. "We could do this—" his fingers plucked out an ethereal melody from the taut strings—"or this." The long, spindly, calloused digits repositioned themselves on those strings and poured out a different melody. When he stopped, I felt my eyes dampen from awe at the beauty and sorrow at the ending. "We could do either one in the second half of the composition. I..." he paused, studying me intently. I barely noticed the corner of his mask slipping. "I am trying..." he started again, "to determine which would compliment your voice more."

And so the music started again.

--

I had never sung so much since my poor father died.

I briefly explored singing as a career before falling into the arms of Madame Giry.

I was fifteen.

--

Poor Father.

The doctors couldn't do anything for him, in the end; they propped him up with pillows and filled his ears with the utterly nonmusical shrill beeps of the various monitors engulfing him.

They had to lop off his hand; they thought it would keep the infection from spreading. Then, afterwards, they only told us "how sorry" they were, filling his ears with more useless sound.

And his voice was gone, too; hidden by the plastic tube shoved in his throat and the steady growling hiss of the respirator.

He lost his ears; his hands; his voice...

He couldn't even tell me goodbye.

--

Erik alternated between the harp and the piano for the rest of the first day.

I was harmonizing with the blissfully pungent notes reverberating off the harp when he added his own voice smoothly. I was aware of nothing except an inexplicable heightened state of musical euphoria for about three minutes.

Then I stopped.

Then _he _stopped.

Irritated.

I cried.

"Please, please!" I wept. "Don't stop singing—oh, please! Pl—"

The rest of my cries were drowned out in his comforting voice.

It had an aura unlike anything quite like I had ever heard before. A property that I couldn't even begin to describe coherently; while he sang I was his puppet. I would like to say that somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware that his voice would be like a drug, a drug of t he best (worst) kind. But I couldn't say that, couldn't say that I knew that, because it wasn't true. Every corner of my existence was filled with Erik's voice.

--

After a while in this fashion he instructed me to continue singing by myself. I looked up at him filled with despair and then saw the look he awarded me; no one could disobey that look.

He had me try more complex vocalizations now; arpeggios so fast they left me breathless, and crescendos so intense I saw spots. But he wasn't satisfied; and I had to please my angel; so I sang until I could sing no more.

And then I took a deep breath, and continued singing.

--

I was in the middle of a long, drawn-out, airy note when he beckoned for me to fall silent.

"Hush," he said. "Sit down." He motioned to the polished piano bench. I sat, and watched him go to his miniscule kitchen. A squeak, and I heard water pouring out into a glass. A slam of a cupboard door, another squeak, and he returned to me with a glass of water. I anxiously took it from him and started to gulp it down.

"Not so fast," Erik said warningly. I slowed down. "Save some." I stopped drinking. He laughed. "So obedient."

He sat down across from me on the cluttered couch. I frowned. "Aren't we—aren't we going to keep going?"

The corners of his mouth turned down just the slightest bit. "In a while, Christine. You need to rest your voice. What a pretty position we would be in if you lost your voice." I nodded slowly, seeing the truth of this. A blotch of discolored skin was peeping out on his forehead. I narrowed my eyes in concentration and stared hard. His eyes turned crimson and he hiked his mask up.

We were silent for several moments.

"Aren't you going to drink any water?" I asked hesitantly.

"No," he said shortly. "_I_ don't need any."

--

We sat like that for about twenty minutes.

There was no sound.

No music.

_No music._

--

While I continued to sit in silence, faintly sipping my water, Erik began scratching music notes feverishly onto a piece of paper. His hand was a flurry, dashing from one side of the page to another faster than I had ever seen another human being do.

Gulping down a mouthful of water, I crossed myself.

--

For several hours, the only sound in the room was the scritch of Erik's mechanical pencil across paper. I fidgeted lazily, waiting for the moment when we could begin creating harmonies once more.

--

I feel asleep.

I dreamt of my father.

Father's fingers, bloody and ashen, plucked at a lyre until his figure exploded into dust and blades of grass. I tried to run to him, but hands, strong hands, grasped at me, holding me back; ripping off my clothes and through it all sang an angel's voice.

--

"What key?" he asked suddenly.

I looked up, confused.

"_What key?"_ he asked again, a note of childish, pleading desperation bleeding into his voice.

I told him my recommendation, and he nodded fervently before scratching it down.

--

Erik stopped abruptly. He checked his watch. I stared at him sleepily.

"Oh," he murmured softly. "You're tired, aren't you?" I managed to roll my head in confirmation once. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Wait here for one more moment, Christine." He disappeared down the hallway and into a room, and I heard a quick rustling sound before he darted back out, tossing a bundle of sheets in his arms on the floor. He took my arm gently and helped me into his bedroom.

"I changed the sheets for you," he said softly. "You can sleep in this." He handed me a button-front shirt delicately. "I'll, er—" He started to turn away. I didn't care. I sleepily took off my clothes and put on the shirt he offered me, and there was a minute when I was only in my undergarments. I could tell he was staring at me, even though I wasn't looking at him. I didn't care. It wasn't something I wasn't used to.

I got into bed gingerly. Erik helped me pull the covers up to my neck, and they brushed against my bruises.

"Goodnight," I mumbled tiredly.

"Goodnight, Christine." He started to leave, to turn out the lights.

"Wait," I said. "Will you sing me a lullaby?"

A pause.

"Not tonight."

The light switched off and the door closed.

--

**A/N: **I... am... so... sorry. That wait was CRIMINAL, it was so long. I hope y'all (hahaha, "y'all"... I feel all rustic now XD) aren't too peeved at me for that wait... if it's any consolation, the next few chapters are in the works. I hope to get chapters four, five, and perhaps six written this weekend, and then typed up during the week. I PROMISE you guys you shall not wait that long for a chapter again if I can help it!

Regardless, did you enjoy this chapter? I wrote it in a bit of a different style on purpose, what did you think? Please review!


	4. STOP GETTING YOUR HOPES UP

**Disclaimer: NOT A CHAPTER. I know, I'm awful. I'm sorry I got your hopes up.**

Hey, everyone,

So... how are we all doing? How have the past few... um, months been for you all?

Unfortunately (as is evidenced by the SEVERE LACK OF UPDATE-AGE), the past few months haven't been the easiest for me, in terms of writing. In terms of real life, they haven't been easy, either. It's been difficult for me just to pick up a pen and _write,_ like I used to be able to.

There are two... well, no, three reasons why my dearest _Compose Yourself_ has been ever so neglected, forced to gather dust on the metaphorical shelves of the internet. As I present them to you, I'll try my darndest to pepper my pathetic whinings with the occasional, witty joke, because this, folks, is the only writing stuff you might be seeing from me for a while (unless you follow _Deadly Sins,_ in which case you'll have another one of these author's notes to read very shortly).

Reason number one:

There are many ways to say this. The most simple is, life sucks.

I don't really think I need to elaborate on this, but I will, just because I can.

A lot of things have happened since I last updated. Some of them have interfered with my writing, and some of them... some of them haven't. All of you authors out there know that writing, especially writing fanfics, is just a hobby; and, like all hobbies, it is forced to take the back burner when something happens to the author or in the author's life. Some huge things have happened, and some small things have happened, too. All in all, updating _Compose Yourself_ isn't my highest priority right now. **HOWEVER!! _COMPOSE YOURSELF_ IS _NOT ON HIATUS!! _**

**Bold is fun. :3**

I repeat, though: _Compose Yourself_ is NOT on hiatus. Why? Read on.

Reason numéro deux (reason number 2, for all of us non-French-speakers):

Why have I not updated Compose Yourself, but why is it not on hiatus?

Because, dear readers, I've already written chapter four, and planned out the story for another ten, fifteen, maybe twenty chapters. To me, a hiatus means the story is being completely halted for an indefinite period of time. Compose Yourself is not being halted; it's a priority, just not a high one.

I can hear you all now:

"What?!? You've written chapter four, but you haven't posted it yet?!? Ugh! I hate you!! *takes off alert list*"

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold your horses, you EC-lovers!! No need to remove me story alert-itude yet, people! Yes, I did finish chapter four in early February, but the reason it hasn't been posted yet is, it's crap.

This isn't crap, as in "GAAAH MY STORY SUCKS THROW ME A PITY PARTY." No, this isn't that kind of crap at all. This is the "I had trouble getting inspired and writing this chapter was like pulling teeth and you can TELL"-crap. Basically, chapter four wouldn't be any fun to read. I'd be ashamed to post it, and you'd be nauseated to read it.

Reason three:  I'm lazy.

Reasons one and two still apply; however, that's not to say that I haven't had a fair few opportunities to update along the way. Obviously, I.. didn't. ;) Sorry about that one.

* * *

TL;DR version: Life sucks, my writing sucks, and my time-management skills suck.

Nice summary, hmm?

If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, please feel free to contact our customer services department at 1-800-- oh, wait. Sorry, doesn't have that yet.

Yet.

Thanks for reading, my precious...-es, and thank you for your patience. If you want to rant at me for my lack of motivation, or just feel like saying hi (I _am_ prompt at emailing! :D ), or maybe even want to have an in-depth discussion about whether Erik's actions in the original were influenced more by his fear of society or society's fear of him, drop me a PM! I love hearing from you all.

~~~~~Opulent Skyscrapers


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